


Skeletons in the Closet

by ToxicBabes



Series: Tales of Apartment 8H [4]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Headcanon Intensive, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, Loss, M/M, One Shot, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicBabes/pseuds/ToxicBabes
Summary: Maxim and Timur return to Russia to collect their possessions as they settle in England. After uncovering relics of his past, Maxim tries to come to peace with his ghosts.
Relationships: Maxim "Kapkan" Basuda/Timur "Glaz" Glazkov
Series: Tales of Apartment 8H [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705774
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Skeletons in the Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Part of this work was based on/inspired by some discussions I had with a friend over the background of Kapkan. I wanted to share these headcanons of Kapkan and Glaz which focuses mainly on their past relationships, the differences between the two of them as you'll see. I'll talk more about this in the end notes!

Under the aloofness of Maxim’s facade laid fears which controlled him far more than he even knew. Throughout his life, he experienced a multitude of different situations but one thing that never failed to unnerve him was the act of falling in love. There was nothing he could do about his own emotions towards Timur by now, nothing could erase the attachments he formed or the way his brain released that specific rush of endorphins upon seeing him. Though what tormented Maxim the most was the thought of the day they would part ways.

What would he do? What _could_ he do? Holding on was always a double edged sword driving through his heart, but the only option he was familiar with. Maxim never enjoyed dissecting his mind, it always uncovered something nasty enough to make anyone peering into his soul recoil in disgust. There were a million words that could describe the masochistic act of holding on, but Maxim knew only the pain of losing the person he had grown too close to. This kind could not be treated easily, maybe for a brief moment numbed by a concoction of drugs and alcohol, but once that all wore off, it was always there. This pain persisted by his mere existence and he did not know how to heal. 

No- he knew. He refused to let go. In Maxim’s eyes, it was a million times worse and he did not wish to listen to reasoning. Sometimes pain was comforting. He held onto tattered possessions, replayed fragmented memories in his head over and over like a broken record player and he kept the ghosts of his past close and dear to his heart. While it hurt to hold onto these things, the prospect of forgetting them once he let go filled him with a heavy anxiety that cracked every rib in his chest.

Although eventually, he learned to live with it, his brain adapted to this pain and normalised it. With whatever he held onto, he buried it at the back of his mind where it laid there comfortably in the darkness, occupying the cosy space and he did not wish to disturb it. 

They returned to Russia in the early spring, a brief trip to collect additional possessions from their old homes. As the days passed they came to the realisation that their careers would lead them to remain in England for a substantial period of their lives and given the direction they wanted to go, it was for the best to stay there. It was away from family, but for now it was somewhere they could be together. 

Timur put down their coffee on the table of the small train carriage and dumped his bag onto his seat before settling down. He let out a sigh out of relief then cupped his drink, using it to warm his cold hands. Eyes looked towards Maxim in deep contemplation and Timur’s lips curved into a light smile. 

“Are you nervous?” He asked and Maxim could not decipher what answer he expected, what the question was even asking about.

“About what?” 

“Meeting my dad,” Timur pointed out. “You’re not nervous?” 

Maxim repeated the question to himself in hopes it could provoke an earnest answer but nothing surfaced. He shrugged again. “A bit,” he supposed then he nudged Timur’s foot under the table. “But you’ll vouch for me, right?”

The train jostled as it began to move. Soon the rhythmic clicking of the wheels filled the carriage with a satisfying beat. 

“I’m sure you’ll make a good impression, I’ve brought home worse guys before,” Timur mused as he turned his gaze to the window. He received a raised brow from Maxim, one that questioned that he was implying there could possibly be someone greater than Maxim Basuda himself. “Last time I moved out was with my ex, then we broke up so I moved all my stuff back into my dad’s. He keeps it safe for me while I’m gone,” he told him, filling the silence with the small story. “I always feel bad taking things away from my room, like I’m taking away part of me from him. He still dusts it down and tidies it, I don’t know why.” 

The creases between Maxim’s brows eased. “That’s nice of him,” he commented then a sly grin played at his lips. “So your father still picks up after you, I guess that’s why you suck at keeping your own place tidy, huh?” 

“Hey, until I moved out for the first time, I was the one keeping the house clean while my dad worked,” Timur said and laughed. “Sometimes I hear him in my head nagging at me to clean up and I ignore it, but then I hear you nagging at me in person and I have no choice. I put my feet up now, I relax. The dishes can always wait. Not everything has to be cleaned up _right_ away.”

They were on a tight schedule, taking a stop in Vladivostok before making their way to Maxim’s former apartment in Kovrov. It was old property he owned, he hadn’t actually lived there in years but there were some things he wanted to bring to England. This wasn’t the vacation they hoped for, as the second they stepped foot in the port city, Timur counted he had until the late evening to catch the next train, leaving only a few hours to collect his possessions and reconnect with his father. 

He led them down familiar streets and noted all the small changes that had happened over the years. The old dog that used to bark at him on the walk to school, the small corner shop where all his friends would visit to purchase snacks, the alley where he had his first kiss. The dog was dead now, shops consumed by gentrification, and he buried that one memory at the deepest recesses of his mind, never to be uncovered again. It was amusing how easily one could become alienated from _home,_ or the place they affectionately referred to as home despite hardly knowing a single thing about it anymore. 

Timur still had the keys. He let them in and filled his lungs with the scent of the apartment, the faint cigarette smoke and the stagnant, stillness of the air itself from the wallpaper insulating the space. He couldn’t place a finger on it, but home had a specific scent to it that one would become blind to over time, and now he was taking it in again like a stranger would despite knowing how familiar it was. It brought a rush of comfort.

The hallway was narrow, lined by family portraits and old mail of bills left to pay. Timur stopped to admire the photo and he traced the pad of his index finger over the cracked glass of the photo frame. Years ago he knocked it over, returning drunk from the bar. His shoulder bumped the frame from where it rested and disturbed the faded image of the once-happy family that lived here. He didn’t have many photographs of his mother, this was one of the few and it always remained by the door like a shrine to her memory. 

Maxim took his shoes off and observed Timur, hesitant to roam in the apartment as if his footprints could disturb the sacredness of this revered place Timur always spoke of, the paradise he yearned to return to during the summers. He allowed Timur to have several minutes to himself as he acclimated to his surroundings. 

“Where’s your father?” Maxim broke their silence and he followed him through the tiny living room to a kitchen of cracked tiles where a rusty sink dripped and dropped. 

“Working. He says we can meet for dinner,” Timur said and approached the ajar window. Stubbed out cigarettes stirred in the ashtray from the gust coming in, speckles of grey dotted over the windowsill and a defeated smile spread on his face as he came to a conclusion. “He told me he was going to quit, but I guess not.” 

Maxim put his hands into his pockets where they could not dirty anything. “Shit happens.” He gave a shrug, he knew what it was like. A dozen attempts in the past had all failed, some longer than others but every time, something had him falling back into old tendencies.

While the apartment was rundown and old, it was spotless. Everything was neatly put away and all surfaces remained dusted, even the parts of the household that had no traffic like Timur’s room. He had a shelf of worn records organised in alphabetical order, trinkets on top of his cabinets and the bedroom allowed Maxim a glimpse into Timur’s world, of what kept him entertained on rainy afternoons, what he lost himself in when the universe became too much.

Painted canvases were covered by light cloth, kept away from the sunlight where they were carefully laid against the walls. The creaking floorboards had the occasional streak of paint marred across the varnish. Timur rifled through his drawers to find the clothes he wanted to bring back to England and he placed them into a neat pile to be packed away. Watching him could only occupy so much time, so Maxim figured he wouldn’t mind if he took a look around.

Maxim didn’t recognise many of the artists on the records, but it did not surprise him that Timur listened to a wide range of different music. Wedged at the end of the large record covers were a couple CDs and Maxim carefully extracted them from where they were squeezed in, afraid to damage the fragile cases. He opened them to find a disc, unprinted with no recognisable features aside from the messy Chinese scrawled across the face of it in black marker ink. 

Playlists, Maxim eventually deciphered it from the handwritten track lists and he brought them back to Timur.

“I didn’t know you liked this kind of music,” he said, holding up the CD cases. Timur motioned for him to hand it over so he could inspect it. “What is it? Pop?” 

A smile brightened Timur’s face like a warm memory returned to him and he sat down on his bed as he continued to look through them. From the lack of disgust on his face, this old lover was probably one of the ‘better ones’ out of the multitude of Timur’s past relationships. He spoke of one individual who was almost perfect in every way, ‘the one who got away’ and ended up marrying a woman instead. At first it was easy for someone to think he was still hung up on this ex, but Maxim understood this amicable reflection to be an appreciation of a positive period in his life. 

“Dumb love songs. Ballads, mostly,” Timur murmured then chuckled to himself as he read down the list. “My ex used to burn these CDs for me, we’d listen to them in his car. He actually had decent taste, I liked some of these.” 

After some consideration, he returned them to Maxim as if he wanted him to put them back where they were found, so perhaps in several years time he could find them again and smile at the memory. Not everything needed a constant presence in his life and in ways, it was better to be without it, that way returning to these memorabilia always felt sweeter. He went back to digging through his clothes and Maxim set off to find more obscure things to tease him over. 

The bedside table contained mostly holiday souvenirs, bottle openers and a couple books on poetry. Under all the junk, Maxim uncovered an ancient pack of cigarettes and out of instinct he opened them to smell. The aroma of tobacco was faint, nearly non-existent from the years it had been sitting in the warm drawer. He amused himself with the thought of Timur as a teenager, so wrought with emotions that he would steal his father’s cigarettes to deal with his woes in typical youthful angst. There was a lighter there too, one of the cheap plastic ones anyone could easily purchase at the shops. 

“Bad boy.” Maxim held up the contraband, proud with what he frisked up. Dreading to see what he found, Timur turned to look at him with an embarrassed grin. “You were such an emo… look at this- is this a pocket knife? Did you carve your first boyfriend’s name into a tree trunk too?” 

“Yeah, actually. If you search deep enough you might find the love letters,” came the sarcastic response and Timur rolled his eyes. “Y’know, I thought my world was over when my first boyfriend broke up with me. I thought he was the one. God, we’re all sort of dumb when we were younger, weren’t we? Eighteen and so, so naive.”

While Maxim laughed in response, he couldn’t say he understood completely what Timur felt. Of course he had a few relationships here and there with women he cared for, but outside of that, nothing substantial. He had no tales of sweet boyfriends, nothing that fit the comfortable narrative, just helpless lamentations of the men who stole his heart while he refused to act upon his feelings.

The drawer was a goldmine. There were indeed love letters, though scrawled onto the back of postcards and grocery receipts. Some had Timur’s chicken scratch, others were written by strangers which Maxim would never know of. He decided not to read them aloud to save Timur from the embarrassment of his youth, but he entertained himself with the sentimental rhymes, wondering if Timur would recognise them should he quote them someday. 

Timur’s hobby of photography began in his teenage years. Old Polaroids were bound together by a rubber band, the year marked on the blank space. The oldest ones were simplistic, shots of places he went on holiday or iconic landmarks of Vladivostok. Maxim found his hands on a recent stack, one from several years ago. 

From a quick calculation he figured this was roughly two years before Timur joined the Spetsnaz, well before they even knew of each other’s existence. There was nothing out of the ordinary here, just landmarks and the typical artistic shots Timur would take, whether that be of people or the environment. Although as Maxim continued to look through the series, he noted a recurring face. Short-cropped hair, the kind required in the military, strong facial features and a cold gaze that gave off an unfriendly aura. Whoever this guy was, likely another ex, Maxim was intimidated by him. He was handsome for sure. 

Photographs of the naked torso, definitely shot by Timur, there was no doubt about it. Maxim appreciated the aesthetics before moving on, though being greeted by the sight of Timur kissing another man filled him with a blankness. Timur’s hair was slightly longer here, a style he would find too high-maintenance nowadays, but it did make him look younger. They were locked at the lips, the flash of the camera illuminated their bashful smiles.

“Hey, what did you find?” Timur investigated Maxim’s silence and his expression faltered when he saw the Polaroid. He held the image in his hand and studied it, brows furrowing as the memories came back. “I was an idiot,” he muttered then shook his head as he turned it in his palm to find his own handwriting on the back detailing the date it was taken on. He tore his gaze from it and looked back at Maxim. “Five years with him, believe it or not.”

Maxim almost winced. Five years was a long time to stick with another individual and from the cold tone Timur reserved for this person, it left a wound that ran deep. “What ended it?” 

“He threw a glass at me, missed because he was drunk. I was… _tired_ of waiting for something to change.” Timur walked over to the window and propped it open. He plucked the lighter from the pile of objects Maxim dug out and clicked it several times to coax a weak flame. For a moment he looked at the photo, almost hesitant, then he steeled himself and allowed the heat to warp the plastic into irrecoverable ash. “I used to tell myself all kinds of stupid lies, sometimes I still do, but you shouldn’t fear the person you love.”

“What made you stay for so long?” Though just as the question slipped from Maxim he realised how stupid it was. It was too late to take it back. He cast a hesitant look towards Timur to find him looking down at the floor in contemplation. “Sorry, I didn't mean to…”

Raising a hand to excuse him, Timur then shrugged it off and clicked the lighter several times again. It was out of fluid, run dry. Maxim offered his own lighter, the brass zippo. “He was struggling. I thought he’d get better,” Timur answered and he said no more, but it was clear he was still thinking about it, the jumbled thoughts churning in his head and he swallowed down the emotions gathering in his throat, not allowing them to overtake him. 

The stench of plastic burning filled the room and the open window allowed it to diffuse out. Maxim watched him set flame to the photographs, one by one until there was nothing left. With that taken care of, Timur went back to his bags and sorted through the expensive stationery he wanted to bring back, a troubled frown across his face. 

“I don’t remember bringing those with me. Must’ve tossed them into the drawer and forgot about it,” he continued to speak as he zipped up the full suitcase. Maxim moved to help, pushing down to encourage the zipper to close. “I bet you can tell what I’m like when I’m heartbroken, hm?”

“Well, I’m glad I won’t ever find out what that’s like,” Maxim joked, hoping to lighten the mood. He studied the bittersweet smile on Timur’s face then he shifted his gaze to the rest of the room, questioning if the decoration and ornaments were fragments of his past that Timur was holding onto or if they meant nothing at all. 

They sat down on the bed to take a breather and Timur braced himself for the heartache of leaving this place once again. After sitting in complete silence for so long he realised what changed since the last time he was here. The batteries in the clock died at some point and hadn’t been replaced, hands forever frozen at seventeen minutes past one. He checked the time on his phone and stood as he read the notifications left behind.

“We should go or we’ll be late,” he murmured and hauled the luggage off the bed. “My dad knows a good restaurant he wants to show us before we leave.”

They poured back into the narrow hallway and Timur cast a forlorn look towards his bedroom before shutting the door. Despite the fact that they didn’t touch anything outside of that room, he did a quick check over the apartment to make sure everything was in place, closing the windows and switching off the heater which had been left on. It was a reflex ingrained within him from years of being chastised for leaving appliances on. 

He left the key under the doormat as instructed and they took the stairs down to the lobby, leaving behind the room that held so many good and bad memories, of blasting songs that filled the heart with an indescribable warmth to weeping into the soft bed covers over what had been lost.

* * *

Aside from clothes, Maxim didn’t know what he was going to find when they returned to his dingy apartment in Kovrov. Spiders maybe, no one had been here in years and he never left a key for his brothers to check up on it. He kept his expectations muted for the most part and wondered how much dust managed to gather. 

The windows were single-paned, allowing the cold to establish in every corner of the apartment and Maxim questioned if the central heating still worked. The lights flickered several times when he turned them on, the kitchen tap gurgled and spluttered weakly upon testing if it still worked. The air was frozen, almost painful to breathe in. They left their shoes on to avoid burning the soles of their feet on the icy floorboards. 

In comparison to everywhere else they had been, from their own place in England to Timur’s family home in Vladivostok, Maxim’s apartment was barren. There was no decoration, just the bare and essential furnishings. All the walls were of one colour, a boring beige that was almost depthless if one were to stare at it for too long and it gave the illusion that the apartment was far bigger than it really was, but in truth, it was minuscule. The bedroom wasn’t much of an improvement either, but there was a slight personal touch to the tiny souvenirs left around, blanketed by an opaque layer of dust. 

While Maxim was beginning to agree that decorations helped make a place feel like home, he never cared much for it. He saw no point in prettying up the living room only to leave it behind months later when his career dictated he had to get up and go. Although with the prospect of remaining in England for far longer, he considered carefully what he wanted to put in their new home, if anything from here was worth bringing back.

Timur sprawled out on the bed for several minutes, worn from all the travel. They slept on the journey to here but not particularly well. The question of how on Earth they were going to sleep here tonight had no answer to it and they felt as if they had been transported several years back to staying in rundown military bases where facilities could be compared to prison. Eventually he sat up and observed as Maxim picked through his drawers, tossing clothes into three piles. 

“Spring cleaning?” Timur questioned and he approached the large closet. Maxim paused and looked over towards him, taking the moment now to question if there was anything compromising in this small apartment of his. What could Timur possibly uncover by digging through the closet? Skeletons, perhaps. The door hinges gave off a squeak and clothes hangers clinked when he browsed through. “Your sense of fashion is so… strange.”

“Says Timur Glazkov,” Maxim teased, about to bring up the time he wore a plain t-shirt with formal trousers, along with the string of excuses Timur tried to make to justify his outfit. 

There were a number of pressed shirts and jumpers, large coats that could not be folded and put away. Timur pressed his face into the fabric out of curiosity and inhaled to pick up a faint stench of cigarette smoke still lingering in the fibres. He felt the thick yarn in his hands then pulled out some of the sweaters and put them on the bed as a suggestion for Maxim to bring them back to England, otherwise Timur would steal them on both their behalf. 

Everything inside the closet was sorted by type in a systematic manner that was typical of Maxim’s disciplined nature. All shirts together, followed by sweaters then finally jackets. Yet there was one jacket tucked by the shirts and Timur questioned its placement, whether it was intentional or just stuffed in there absentmindedly. He pulled it out and inspected the bomber jacket. The material was durable and smooth, holding onto a sleek coldness that was oddly relaxing to run his fingers against. 

“This is so nice,” Timur found himself murmuring, enraptured by the quality of this jacket. He slipped it on without question and the synthetic fabric engulfed the warmth of his body so readily. Turning to the mirror, he studied the fit of it and found the sleeves to be slightly too long, his shoulders didn’t quite fill into it yet there was something homely about this garment that he couldn’t pinpoint. The strong aroma of cologne? It didn’t smell like the type Maxim would buy for himself, and given their similar builds, the jacket wouldn’t fit him either and Maxim never bought oversized clothes. 

“What is?” 

Maxim looked over his shoulder to find Timur facing him, waiting to show him what he found. He put down the T-shirt clutched in his hand and in a pregnant silence he took in the sight of Timur clad in that bomber jacket, blinking back with those blue eyes that searched and searched for the answers Maxim was always hesitant to give. Timur could never find them. When he did, he was never sure if he was able to read him successfully. Maxim’s brows began to furrow upwards, gaze filling with something intangible to his understanding. 

The pause between them had Timur questioning if he had done something gravely wrong and a gut feeling urged him to take the jacket off, put it back in the closet. Yet he stood still, bound by the tension in the air. 

“You look good in it.” Maxim took a step towards him and reached towards his hands. The tone of his voice was brittle and his gaze unwavering as he took in the younger man. Timur met him halfway, allowing him to inspect the garment on his body. As Maxim’s hands ran along his shoulders then gripped his strong arms covered by the loose sleeves, Timur looked down and realised the embroidery across the breast pocket. A surname, but not Basuda. Their eyes met and Timur couldn’t hide the frown in question of what this meant. 

“An ex?” Timur tried to guess, offering a raise of his brows in hopes to lighten the situation but he knew whoever this was, that their influence ran deep within Maxim down to his very roots.

“A friend.” Maxim took a seat on the bed and he listened to the soft rustle as Timur took the jacket off. He took the jacket when Timur urged him to take it. Every inch of his body tried to resist the instinct to plunge his face into the fabric and take in the scent that lingered on it. “Just someone I knew. We weren’t together. It’s... it’s dumb, really.”

“But he was important to you,” Timur inferred and Maxim nodded back, but this individual was so much more than words could possibly convey. “I’m sorry, if I’d known-“ 

“You didn’t. It’s fine,” interrupted Maxim as he ran his thumb over the embroidery, caressing the rough threads as if it were a lover’s cheek. He rose to his feet and paced back to his piles of clothes, looking between all of them as he weighed each decision to make. His gaze rested on the clothes that were to be discarded and he questioned if he would benefit from letting go just as Timur had done with those photographs, but this was different. Maxim was different. This wasn’t a case of a failed relationship but the beast of something unrequited, unspoken thoughts and a lifetime of imagining what could have been. 

It still ate away at Maxim as it had consumed him years prior. Hearing Timur’s steady breaths across the room filled him with a relief that he allowed himself to love him. He couldn’t cope with the solitude of burying his own feelings towards someone else anymore, it was a corrosive process that left a gaping hole in not just his heart, but his soul too. The constant, itching wonder whether the person in question felt the same way, hopelessly dreaming of their affections. It was the painful awareness that one would never receive any consolation or closure once that point had passed. For Maxim, it passed long ago. 

With time slipping by, he proposed they should grab something to eat from a takeout nearby. Anything to get out of here for a moment. Maxim left the jacket on the bed and they escaped the apartment, leaving the darkened atmosphere that was almost oppressive. Although they returned not long after and as they sat by the dinner table, eyes drawn to the small television, Maxim was overcome with déjà vu. He focused on Timur’s voice, the occasional glance he would cast towards him to watch for a reaction that would never come and Maxim tried his best to fight the nostalgia settling in his head. 

The past was encroaching on him and by stepping foot into this apartment, he had opened a can of worms. Maxim never believed in superstition or ghosts, but he was positive that this place was haunted, even cursed from all the memories he made here, of hookups that had him scrubbing his skin raw in the shower to the fleeting moments of a friendship so tender he was fooled to believe something was possible. He knocked back his beer in hopes the cold beverage could provide some clarity but it only brought him back to those evenings, getting drunk and laughing over something stupid, sitting slightly too close and waiting, _waiting_ for something that would never happen. 

He scratched the back of his neck and dug his nails into his scalp in an attempt to claw out the worms of his past that were writhing and burrowing into his head, feeding off his sorrow. The close walls of the apartment pressed down on him, closing in to crush his bones into the dust that settled on every surface. All he could do was to cower against this force and squeeze his eyes shut in hopes it would grant him a quick death. 

“Hey, you’re alright,” Timur’s voice spoke in a gentle reassurance. He reached across the table and clasped a hand over Maxim’s, warming his flesh. 

“I’m really not,” Maxim said and his face twitched, the corners of his lips stuttered into an improvised smile. He fidgeted for a moment before deciding to light a cigarette and he offered Timur one as well. It was impossible to distinguish between their misty breaths and the coiling cigarette smoke, the central heating had been faulty since he even moved in. Maxim gave a woeful sigh. 

It crossed his mind several times in the past to sell this place, or make some money by renting it to someone. Although each time he merely thought about it, an unpleasant sensation stirred in his gut and he did not want to allow the apartment to fall into anyone else’s hands. He loathed every square metre of it, how it made him feel, what it reminded him of. Yet the idea of never being able to set foot into this place again, or returning here for something to have been changed against his terms, he couldn’t make sense of the unease it set him in. 

There wasn’t a whole much Timur could do about the situation, all he could do was hum in understanding before he got up to get more beer. With the cigarette sandwiched at the corner of his lips, he rummaged in the fridge to return with two cans that weren’t exactly chilled. “Just one night, then we’ll be gone,” he reminded Maxim, but it was one night too many. If anything, Maxim would rather sleep on the streets. 

He returned to his bedroom and braced himself with sorting out his old possessions. Unwanted clothes were stuffed into a large bag to be thrown away, anything he wanted to bring, he passed over to Timur who played the intricate game of Tetris in their suitcase. Just when he thought he was done, his eyes met the jacket lying on the bed, light reflecting off the synthetic cloth. 

With Timur watching, Maxim suddenly didn’t know how to conduct himself. He snatched it from the bed and took deliberated steps towards the bin bag, but then as he grasped the plastic in his fist and seized the opening, a small thought at the back of his head cried out for him to stop. It told him he would regret doing such a thing and the decision would haunt him for the rest of his life, an anguish far worse than coping with the memories that clung to the fibres of the dreaded thing. He’d already burnt the old photographs years ago and getting rid of them did not provide any relief, only visceral agony at losing more of what had been taken from him.

Frustrated, Maxim drew a breath before he looked towards Timur. “I was supposed to return it, I was going to. But then he-“ he couldn’t bear saying it, so he gestured vaguely and Timur nodded in an attempt to understand him. To him, this whole story was an enigma, he knew nothing of the owner of the jacket and a strong inkling at the back of his mind told him he would never come to know this individual. And that was okay. He saw the heartache it caused Maxim and some memories were better left buried. Maxim’s knuckles were white from his intense grip on the viscose collar and he paced restlessly, trying to figure out what he was going to do. “He- He’s gone now. And this is all I have of him. I don’t have anything else.”

Timur did not move from where he sat, knowing that if he moved a single inch that Maxim would flinch away. He maintained this distance, but there wasn’t a second he didn’t want to pull Maxim into an embrace to comfort his troubled soul, or to provide him a soft landing for when he needed to crumble apart. All he could do was watch, look on helplessly as Maxim took a long sip of his beer, still debating with himself in an agitated silence and wishing he had something stronger.

“Every time I come back here, _this_ is always waiting for me. All of this,” Maxim motioned at the room, but he referred to the entire apartment block. His lips twisted into a sardonic smile, almost a grimace at the cruel hold these attachments had over him. “It ruins me and… I just can’t let go. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

The nights spent drunk, throwing precious memorabilia into the bin and swearing to set the apartment on fire with the flame of his lighter burning so bright and true in his clenched fist, only to wake up on the floor the next morning and dig everything out of the trash, put them neatly back into his drawers. A process Maxim repeated too many times, a cycle he was trapped in with no inclination to get out anytime soon. In hindsight, he was a pathetic, broken mess. Had his friend been there, he would’ve told Maxim to gather himself together with a tough pat on the back. And the thought only made Maxim feel worse. He ended up consumed by his own anger towards himself for being _weak,_ not comforted by the reassurances of his imagination.

“Whether you throw it away or not, you won’t be losing him,” Timur proposed, finding it difficult to say something Maxim hadn’t heard of a thousand times before from all kinds of people, but deep down stirred an understanding of the ache he was experiencing. “It’s okay to move forwards. You’re not... erasing him. Pain isn’t something you have to live with. This hurt, it’s not _him._ ” 

Glossy eyes looked between clenched fists before Maxim opened the closet. “He stays here,” he declared through gritted teeth, though his voice was soft, hardly a whisper over the whistling of the radiator. He put the jacket back where it was found and pressed his back against the closet doors, ensuring it really was closed. He took in the pitiful look on Timur’s face. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t think of him anymore but I-“ he swallowed thickly, still fidgeting with the dry skin around his finger nails as he picked away, encouraging his thoughts to become words. “I don’t think I _want_ to let go. I don’t know what I want to do.”

Maxim couldn’t count on his fingers the amount of times he had pondered whether it was his capability to let go or his desire to hold on, at this point he didn’t care for the answer. For a glimpse of a moment he looked towards Timur as if to ask if it was okay, but the emotions gripped his jaw like a vice and his thin lips curled into a pained grimace. 

“You need time,” Timur told him, but Maxim was uncertain if he was capable of figuring out this complicated mess within the span of his life.

For man, time was finite and Maxim always felt like he had too much of it, that life was a torturous drag and they were all here to just endure it. Beslan only consolidated this thought and he questioned if he had the ability to withstand it all. Although, he brought his mind back to the moments where things seemed fine, when he wasn’t tormented by his burdens and when he felt _alive._ He tried to take a breath. He survived this before, he could do it again. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, nodding as he summoned the strength to hold himself together. “I just need to get out of here.” 

After a quick smoke on the balcony, Maxim tried to subdue his mind and find some rest. The mattress was as hard as the ground, pressing into every right spot in his back and his muscles relaxed as he lay there, half-lidded eyes staring at the blank ceiling which burned into his retinas. Timur returned from the bathroom and crawled onto his side of the bed, unsure of where their boundaries laid. Once Maxim beckoned him over, Timur fell right into his arms.

For years there was a returning thought that made Maxim out to be an insignificant speck in the universe. Unlike the man he loved long ago, he had no wife, no children. He felt as if he was nobody and soon enough it became that way. He rarely contacted his family, friends did not go out of their way to check on him. There was a heart beating within his chest, blood flowing in his veins, but his soul fell into a deep hibernation and he was uncertain it would ever return to him. His body was merely an aging vessel, carrying a consciousness clouded by grief. 

Though the man in his arms, the one who loved Maxim more than anyone else, Timur reminded him there was still someone beneath the torment. A cheeky friend, a dedicated instructor, an attentive lover. There were people around Maxim who cared about him and cherished his presence, that his life had a purpose.

Maxim concentrated on the breaths tickling his chest and he timed each deep inhale and gentle exhale with Timur’s. This warmth present with him now grounded him, he didn’t lose himself to his thoughts. Timur was there for him, he had his back. 

It took years to come to a conclusion that had any semblance of understanding this matter and Maxim was too prone to falling back into his old ways of thinking, but he always found himself cradling the idea that death doesn’t _choose._ If it was possible to place a numerical value upon each life, quantify worth based on whether they lived a socially acceptable life, or their morals, or the amount of times they’ve consciously told a white lie, death didn’t give a single damn. It was a truth that Maxim came to a reluctant acceptance with. What he survived wasn’t a matter of whether he deserved it or not, and what took _him_ and all the others were uncontrollable factors. 

This helplessness never failed to leave him in a stewing rage, but being upset at it did little, if anything at all. Maxim had the rest of his life to live and it wouldn’t be him if he didn’t feel the need to do something meaningful. While Timur would emphasise the importance of acknowledging the worst of emotions, Maxim loathed the stagnancy of dropping everything to willingly put his mind into a state of hysterics. He needed a constant momentum, anything to keep himself distracted.

It wasn’t clear to himself if he would be able to let go. Or as Timur proposed, moving forwards from this pain. Perhaps pain was all Maxim had left. There were no photographs anymore, just a lived-in jacket that still held the too-familiar aroma of cologne. At least with dog tags, one could grip them in their fist until the metal dug into the flesh of their palms in such cathartic pain, but Maxim was cursed with this fragile garment. Good memories were faded and distant. It only seemed like yesterday he was drunk, weeping in bed with the sleeves of the bomber jacket enveloping over his arms like a warm embrace and the scent filled every crevice of his lungs to bring both comfort and a sorrow worse than anything Maxim ever felt. 

_He stays here._ Maybe for now. Or forever. To haunt Maxim, ruin his week and loom at the back of his mind for the rest of his life. It wasn’t ideal, but he was okay with it. Maxim would leave him behind in this apartment and find solace in England, in Timur’s arms where his love was returned with just as much tenderness. 

With Timur, there was closure and reciprocity. The great distinction between anyone in the past and Timur was that he loved Maxim. No need to daydream about imaginary scenarios, the idealised simulations in his head of what could happen, because Timur would gladly make it a reality. When they returned to England, Maxim made a conscious effort to swat away the thoughts plaguing him like pestering flies. No one would’ve wanted him to see him like this, nor would they have wanted him to trip into old pitfalls. 

Their wardrobes were looking fuller now and it brought some comfort to wear something different for once other than the same few t-shirts, tattered tracksuit bottoms and old hoodies. Timur began to pick up his hobby of painting again after so long of not having the proper resources to do so and Maxim suggested that he should pretty up their walls with a couple artworks. To add a personal touch to the place, mask over the vintage drab left over from the previous tenants.

The journey had Maxim thinking. He understood some of the influences behind Timur’s wide range of musical tastes and where he learnt that ramen always tasted better with dinner’s leftovers cooked alongside it, why he always shot a careful look towards Maxim every time he knocked something over. It was clear it came from _somewhere_ and echoed experiences of the past. Maxim often looked towards Timur and wondered how often he thought of the men who broke his heart, if he was conscious the behaviours he displayed were influenced by them. It was a different kind of loss, but one that still stung. Did Timur really let go of the pain they caused him? Did the act of seeing a familiar name still leave a sour taste at the back of his mouth or did he learn to accept the parting no matter how bitter? 

Some questions didn’t have answers, or rather, Maxim didn’t feel the need to seek them out. He allowed the past to remain as it was, done and dusted, in the same way Timur did not inquire why he kept that dreaded apartment in Kovrov despite the way it made him feel. 

Days trailed past where Maxim spent a minute too long reminiscing, or dreaming of what could’ve been. It was inevitable, but he didn’t allow those thoughts to get him down, holding onto these hypothetical situations with an iron grip so they wouldn’t run rampant in his head. He allowed them some time in the mornings when he enjoyed his first cigarette of the day, though seemingly it always circled back to his appreciation that what he had with Timur was very much real. 

The balcony door-hinges needed oiling. It was a recurring thought every time Maxim stepped out yet he always forgot to fix it. Although this time it didn’t cross his mind, he was more curious about the fact that Timur was coming out to the balcony. He tried to shut the door behind him but the broken lock was fidgety.

“Slam it really hard,” Maxim instructed, not moving from where he sat on the ice-cold chair. He took a long sip from his mug and found amusement in Timur repeatedly trying to close it, apprehensive to put too much force into it. “Like, here.”

He took over and gave the door a firm push, hard enough to make the walls tremble. Timur gathered his own cup from the windowsill and held it in his hands to warm them as he looked over the grey car park beneath them. He sniffed the crisp, wet air and glanced at the other chair, considering to sit down but he decided against it, knowing the coldness of the metal would seep through the fabric of his trousers. 

It hadn’t occurred to Maxim that he had been simply sitting here, watching the rain drip from the gutters upstairs. His coffee was tepid now so he made an effort to slug it down before it became any cooler. Leaning against the railings, Timur occupied the spot usually Maxim would take, but instead of brooding, he seemed to be at peace. He looked over his shoulder when he heard the familiar sound of Maxim thumping his pack of cigarettes against the heel of his palm. Twice, always. A precautionary measure. 

“Why do you do that?” Timur asked and listened for the satisfying click of his zippo, the scratch of the flint which gave off such a lovely sound he could feel it run down his spine. 

At first it seemed Maxim didn’t know, but as he thought about it, the truth returned to him. He took a long drag from his cigarette. “I was told it’s just nicer if you do,” he said and Timur beckoned for it. “Less airy, I guess.”

Told by who? By _him._ It felt like a century ago. Maxim remembered the charming face, but this time it didn’t fill his entire soul with a horrid glumness, instead he found himself smiling at the memory of the interaction, how he was in Timur’s shoes of questioning the act. He stood to lean against the wet railings next to Timur, pressing his bare forearms against the dew that gathered on the surface to see what there was to contemplate over. 

At these early hours of the morning, the streets below were relatively empty with the occasional car peeling down the road. They watched the dark blob of a pedestrian move along the pavement, huddled up in a heavy raincoat while their small, white dog trotted along, unaffected by the dreary weather. It took Maxim some time before he realised what Timur was watching but he did, he revelled in the act of witnessing the world pass by. They exchanged the cigarette between them until it singed down to the filter and Maxim tossed it into the small water bottle he used to dispose of all the butts. 

With no reason to linger any longer, Timur picked up his cup and prepared to go inside. He leaned in to press his lips against Maxim’s stubbly cheek, to which Maxim received his kiss readily with a small smile on his face. This time Timur managed to close the balcony door, but only after one hesitant attempt. As he disappeared into their apartment, Maxim finally recognised the sweatshirt Timur was wearing to be one of his own which he took back with him from the apartment. 

There Maxim stood and the passing breeze caressed his back. He peered through the cracked glass of the door into their small apartment. The leaky ceiling had been patched but a large, unsightly stain remained, walls stood naked where Timur did not have the time or energy to paste the new wallpaper he purchased weeks ago. There were many issues with their apartment but it was clear they weren’t going to go anywhere else soon. As much as Maxim liked to complain about it, he did not hold any animosity towards it. Of course it could be better, but in ways, it was special. The first apartment he ever shared with a man- a man he _loved._

While the ghosts of his past followed him beyond the borders of Russia, he cherished what he had in this very moment. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can probably tell by now that the topic of sexuality is a recurring theme in the more-serious fics of Kapkan and Glaz. One of my larger headcanons regarding them is that Maxim doesn't have any romantic relationships with men prior to dating Timur, only hookups. Despite that, Maxim still experiences this attraction and strong emotions, particularly towards an unnamed individual in his past who he cared for. I had a bit of difficulty navigating how I would tell this part of his story as I did not want to dump a bunch of exposition on the reader like 'he used to be in love with this person and never receives closure regarding it' so a lot of his story is inferred or remains a mystery as it does to Timur's perspective. I wanted to leave Maxim's conclusion to be slightly ambiguous as I don't think he necessarily comes to peace with his past, he just learns to cope with it better. Maybe he does someday, but I definitely see him as someone who is heavily influenced by his past and forces himself to focus on the present/future as a way to avoid addressing his issues.
> 
> In contrast, Timur comes to an acceptance with his sexuality at a young age, he engages in romantic relationships and finds these connections, although they end for various reasons, whether that be breaking it off due to long-distance, one party wishing to adhere to societal/familial wishes of heterosexual marriage, or in one of his cases, things just going wrong. He has a strong desire to find someone to be with, that kind of stable permanence, so when it comes to breaking up with someone he tried so desperately hard to help, it's difficult for him to 'get over.' 
> 
> One of his ex-boyfriends, the one who he stayed with for five years, is stated to be in the military. His actions towards Timur are obviously wrong, no doubt about it. An aspect I tried to glaze over is the notion that this individual was struggling mentally and as a result, he ends up taking it out on Timur who clings onto this relationship in hopes that it would return to what it once was, or that the situation would improve because in ways, he understands the turmoil his boyfriend was going through. It's one of those complicated situations where Timur wants to help, but ultimately he can't do anything about the situation because his boyfriend never receives the support he needed from a healthcare professional. In the end, Timur realises he has to look out for himself, for his own well-being. He has to sever himself from this dysfunctional relationship even if he was still in love with that person at the time, but it shapes him to be a stronger person. He is more conscious of what he deserves as well as being more assertive in ensuring Maxim's emotional well-being so they don't reach a similar point to that relationship.
> 
> I don't know if this info-dump here provides any clarity, but it's mostly the details I want to talk about that I couldn't necessarily shove into the one-shot. 
> 
> My Twitter is [@CompoundZ8](https://twitter.com/CompoundZ8)  
> My Tumblr is [erc-7](https://erc-7.tumblr.com)


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